


The Dog Whisperer

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: And More Fluff, Cute Mickey Milkovich, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Jealous Ian Gallagher, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:36:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: #95 "I was bored all day so… I got us a dog."Mickey hates the dog that Ian had happily brought home with him -- until he didn't.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 5
Kudos: 113





	The Dog Whisperer

Listening to the faint popping echo, spitting towards him, of his sizzling fried eggs, Mickey couldn’t help but ponder the whereabouts of his husband. Considering it was Ian’s only day off from his 9-5 occupation, Mickey would have half-expected Ian to be wondering around the place, chewing Mickey’s ear off and doing his best to irritate the shit out of him. Instead, Mickey found himself waiting for the AWOL idiot, cooking eggs, slowly coming down from the induced adrenaline caused by hopelessly running around attempting to calm down Gallagher kids. If anything, getting home from work was his favourite time, but not when he had to chase Franny around the place, tripping over endless toys, and listening to Liam outsmart him for the billionth time. 

Wherever Ian had trailed off too, Mickey was definitely going to kick his ass. 

Just on que, Mickey hears the familiar footsteps enter the house, a door slam following shortly behind. Mickey doesn’t turn from his position by the frying pan, listening out for the nearing footsteps approaching. Ian always walked with some heavy stomps, an elephant, practically breaking the floor beneath his feet. The loud stomps were mixed with suspicious shuffling, whispering, and chuckles that echoed through into the Gallagher kitchen. 

Mickey squints, his hand halting as he flipped his eggs, “Fuck you been?” 

Ian responds with a wary stutter, “I’ve, uh, been busy.” 

Dropping his eggs onto his plate, with other various breakfast items scattered around, Mickey uses his freehand to shut off the hob, turning his attention to Ian’s strange behaviour. With a mouth full of food, he addresses Ian’s continuous bubbling laughter, “G’won, tell me what’s so funny. Know you’re dyin’ to fuckin’ tell me.” 

This only makes Ian grin more, mischievously, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ian’s certainly hiding something. Mickey could read him like a book; the child-like grin splashed across his cheeks were an indication of that. “Sure.” He mummers, dipping some bread into his egg yolk, “You’re so predictable, Gallagher.” 

As Mickey waits, his eyebrows raised, prompting Ian to spill his guts, Ian bobs excitedly on his toes. Mickey didn’t know what got him so damn giddy, but he was sure Ian would tell him anyway. 

Just as expected, Ian can’t hold his secret in any longer, brimming with joy as he explained himself to Mickey. “Okay, okay. Fine. I’ll tell you.” Mickey just stares him down, guessing Ian’s excitement was caused by something minute, like a butterfly or some shit. 

“So,” Ian beams, “I was kinda bored all day, so… I got us a dog.” 

Mickey’s definitely hearing things; or hallucinating. Ian hadn’t just confessed that he got them a dog. 

Nearly dropping his plate, Mickey swallows harshly, before asking, “Fuck you say?” 

Instead of Ian babbling away, he steps to the side and reveals all. Behind him, stashed in a crumbling cardboard box, was in fact a dog. This dog wasn’t one of those fluffy Labradors, or cute heavy-breathing pugs, that you find in pet stores. No, this dog was dirty; dirt mixed with stale piss matted into it’s overgrown fur.

Mickey wrinkles his nose, immediately put off his food. 

Ian, however, all giddy and overjoyed with such an animal, flexes his hands into the air, “Tadaaaaa…!” 

Mickey slams his plate against the countertop, scowling, unimpressed, “What the fuck is that thing?” 

Ian physically sags, his eyes wounded, “It’s a dog, Mick.” He reaches down towards the box, lifting the animal towards his chest. “You know, the kind that goes woof woof.” 

Mickey already hated the thing; it made Ian smile brighter than he could. The smell, well, that was something else; a whiff knocking Mickey sick each-time Ian bobbed it up and down. Those eggs were indefinitely coming back up. 

Stepping back, Mickey pushes down the queasiness, “I know what a goddamn dog is. What the fuck is _that_?” 

Mickey didn’t want a pet; and sure, as hell didn’t want one that smelt like death. 

Ian ignores Mickey’s frustrations, kissing the top of the dogs fur, “I found him wandering the streets. Poor little guy, I had to take him. He looked so hungry.” He pouts his lip, causing Mickey’s stomach to stir, and nears into Mickey’s space. 

On further examination, Mickey could confirm that the dog wasn’t a looker. “That’s the ugliest dog I have ever seen.” 

Ian places a hand against the animals ears, mouth agape with shock, “You can’t say that, Mick!” He bobs him against his chest still, speaking more childishly, “He’s just misunderstood is all.” 

Mickey scoffs, distracting himself from the foul odour radiating off the thing. He shoves his plate into the sink, circling around the countertop and over to the kitchen table. With a grunt, he moans a little more; maybe he just didn’t like how Ian’s attention was fully on the goddamn dog, giving it kisses and shit. Maybe Mickey wanted those kisses. “Misunderstood my ass. He’ll be shitting and pissing everywhere before you know it. Enjoy cleaning that up.” 

Rolling his eyes, Ian places the dog onto the floor, “Isn’t he cute though?” 

“Nope.” Mickey deadpans, pouring himself some coffee. 

He wished he had something stronger; Ian’s display of idiocy was grinding on him. 

Ian stalks towards the table, hand on hip, eyes glaring into Mickey’s skull. “Oh, come on, Mick. Try and smile for once in your life.” 

Mickey sharply turns to Ian’s position beside him, already smelling the distant linger of the dogs scent against Ian’s skin, and growls nearly, “Nothin’ about that thing is making me wanna crack a smile, man.” He turns back towards his coffee, mumbling beneath his breath, “Fuckin’ hideous.” 

Ian sighs dramatically, “You’re so horrible.” 

Mickey did agree with Ian, but that thing was fucking ugly. Ian always had a conscience for things like that, the hopeless, those who needed saving. Hero complex was getting out of control. Mickey scoffs around his coffee cup, watching Ian from the corner of his eye as he petted the dog with devoted affection. 

After his sip, he snarls, “I know. Kind of one of my specialities.” 

Ian bends down, muttering kind words towards the dog, “Don’t listen to him. He’s just a dick.” 

“Great.” Mickey grunts, the coffee going way to fast, “Dog whisperer over here. What’s next, you getting him doing tricks, jumping over fuckin’ banisters and shit.” 

Because, come on, this was a ludicrous situation. A dog? They could have hardly looked after themselves, including another million Gallagher’s running around the place, never-mind a shitting, loud, and incredibly stinking mutt waltzing around. 

Ian, as always, mocks him teasingly, stepping over towards Mickey. His arms wrap around his shoulders, “You’re just jealous because I like him more than you.” 

Mickey shoves Ian’s prying arms away, “Oh, please. You’re welcome to each-other.” 

Ian enjoys Mickey’s squirming, his pinging jealous visually evident, and he grins to himself as he walks into the kitchen. Grabbing a carton of juice from the fridge, he suggests, “We need to name him something.” 

Mickey’s already sick of hearing about the goddamn thing. He finishes his coffee, “I don’t need to do shit. I’m drinkin’ my coffee.” He pours himself another. “You do your dog whispering shit in the other room, can smell him from here.” 

The dog waddles towards Ian’s legs, tail wagging, mouth open with heavy breaths. Ian’s smile grows wider. After swallowing some juice, he discards the half-full carton, and leans down once more. Face to face with the little thing, he thinks hard. “I’m going to call you…. Yeah, I’m going to call you Buster.” 

“Shit fuckin’ name.” Mickey shoots out a comment. 

Ian lifts Buster into his arms, cooing him. “Fuck off.” 

Mickey gathers himself, standing from his seat at the table. “Gladly.” Showing Ian his middle finger, he walks to exit the room. One eyebrow raised, he remarks, “Take that mutt with you.” 

What had Ian been thinking? Like seriously? A dog?   
***   
Mickey grumbles angrily as he checks his phone for the time. 3:05. The realisation that he had literally only been asleep for a lousy 30 minutes made him want to thrash his arms against the bed. Sometimes, it would be Ian’s endless snoring that would keep him up, or Gallagher’s arguing and stomping about with their elephant feet, but tonight it was something new.

That goddamn dog. 

Mickey had tried counting sheep, squishing his eyes shut until sleep overcame his senses, but the scratching and the whimpers, on repeat, were aggravating. Ian could sleep through a goddamn earthquake, and to Mickey’s annoyance he was soundly asleep next to him. For a second, Mickey wants to smoother him with his pillow; Ian had brought the dog and yet Mickey was dealing with the consequences. Maybe he wouldn’t smoother him, he’d miss him too much. 

Suddenly, the scratching from behind the door escalated, more frantic. Mickey couldn’t even think in peace without that mutt interrupting with it’s goddamn neediness. Mickey rubs his head across his face, “if that fuckin’ thing wakes me up one more goddamn time—” 

The scratching continues. Mickey can’t cope with it any longer. He nudges at Ian’s shoulder, trying to jerk him awake. “Ian, wake the fuck up.” 

Ian mumbles incoherently, turning his head from side to side sleepily. He doesn’t wake. This only makes Mickey even more exasperated. “Ian. I said. Wake. The. Fuck. Up.” 

Swatting a drowsy hand towards Mickey, completely missing it’s aim, Ian mumbles into his pillow. “Mmfphhhh…” He swats again, a tired response to Mickey’s prodding. “Stop it, Mickey.” 

Mickey slaps his hand against Ian’s chest, grumpily snarling, “Sort your fuckin’ dog out.” 

Ian jolts a little before curling himself further into the blanket, his back to Mickey. “…tired.” 

“And I’m hot as balls, don’t hear me bitching about it.” 

With an exhausted sigh, Ian turns his face, all gooey eyes and yearning smile, “Can you do it?” 

Mickey can never say no to that face. It was a problem. A serious problem. 

Hiding his heart-melting smile, Mickey angrily gets up from the bed. “Dick.” 

That’s where it all started. Apparently after a long-ass shower, a fresh cut, and googly eyes just like Ian’s, the dog wasn’t that bad afterall. Mickey hated the damn thing, he did, but he couldn’t help but admit that the animal was some-what endearing. That, and the fact he humped the shit out of anything in sight, which filled with pride.   
***   
_1_   
The first time Ian notices Mickey’s strange behaviour occurred during the early hours of a Sunday morning. Ian had been enjoying his cosy slumber, all tucked up in the blankets, a sleepy smile across his face. That’s until he hears banging, curses, and the sound of a jacket zip shooting up. Mickey, apparently, was not considerate to Ian’s tired ears. 

Ian turns sleepily to the sounds, eyes latching onto Mickey’s clumsy attempt at getting dressed. It was unusual for him to be up at that hour, unless he was working, and Ian was sure that this was the only day they both had off. On days like this, Mickey would plead that they would stay in bed all day, occasionally fucking, and cuddling the shit out of each-other. That’s why Ian couldn’t comprehend Mickey desperately wanting to get dressed. 

“Mick?” 

Mickey jumps a little, not expecting Ian to be awake, before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss onto Ian’s forehead. “Go back to sleep.” 

Ian would ordinarily fall into Mickey’s rare moments of cuteness, but Mickey’s odd behaviour overwhelmed his warmed heart. He leans up onto his elbows, “Where you going?” 

Mickey slips his foot into his left boot, speaking as he bows the laces, “Gotta take the mutt for a walk.” 

Ian’s eyes form into a squinted line, “Thought you hated him?” 

As soon as Ian had surprised Mickey with Buster, he took every opportunity to shout insults, groan disgruntledly, and list off varied reasons why Ian was an idiot for bringing him home, and now he was willing volunteering to take the dog for a walk. 

Mickey stands up, raising a brow, “You gonna do it?” 

“No.” Ian says, bringing the blanket up to his chin. 

“Exactly.” Mickey deadpans, wiping his hands against his jeans. “So shut the fuck up, and get back to your precious beauty sleep.” 

As Mickey heads to leave the room, Ian quickly grabs at his hand, eyes pleading, “C’mere.” 

Mickey squeezes his fingers, before refusing Ian’s offer. “I’ll be 20 minutes. You’ll survive, Gallagher.” 

Once Mickey has left, the loud slam of the front-door echoing through the house, Ian stares up at the ceiling, instantaneously bemused and disappointed. Never would he have imagined Mickey, his aggressive thug husband, choosing a tail-wagging pooch over Ian’s offers of seduction.   
He pushes away the strange feeling of suspicion, rolling back over in the bed. Mickey was probably sitting on the porch steps, smoke in his mouth, pretending to take Buster for a walk. 

**_2._ **

“Fuck…. Ian—” 

Ian’s mid-thrust, his body towering over Mickey’s, their lips hungrily attacking each-other. Mickey’s laid beneath him, his quivering legs wrapped around his waist, moaning in sheer pleasure as Ian’s rhythm begins to pick up. Ian’s groaning, little sweet nothings escaping his lips, as his body shivers in bliss at Mickey’s heatedness wrapped around him. Mickey’s so warm, tight, and so fuckin’ wet. Mickey’s a whimpering mess, clinging to his skin, mouth agape with each orgasmic fuck leaving his lips. Ian bites at his lip, thrusting harder this time. 

Just as Mickey feels the tingling, twisting sensation, churning in his stomach, his orgasm on the brink, his eyes fluttering, he feels Ian’s jerking hips come to a halt.

Popping one eye open, utterly breathless, he notices Ian’s attention diverted, “Why the fuck did you stop?” 

Ian shifts awkwardly inside Mickey, glancing repeatedly to the side of the bed. “He’s staring at us, again. Can you get him out? He’s putting me off.” 

Mickey lifts himself higher against the bed, legs still clenched around Ian’s back, and sees the cause of Ian’s unease. Buster, for the fourth time that week, was sat with wide eyes at the side of the bed. Staring, breathing heavily, he doesn’t shift at Ian’s shooing hand. Mickey giggles a little, falling back into the sheets, urging

Ian with his hips. “Come on, man. He doesn’t know what’s happening.” 

Ian had seen the dog literally licking his lips. And why was Mickey so adamant to defend him? 

“I’m pretty sure he does, Mick.” He feels his dick going limp. “Dog’s can sense that shit.”

Mickey waves off his comment, yet again defending Buster. “Just get a fuckin’ move on, Gallagher. You’re giving me serious blue balls here.” He jerks his hips once more, wiggling his brows. Ian doesn’t budge though. “Leave him the fuck alone, he aint bothering me.” 

Ian, of course, does get back into fucking Mickey into the sheets, but he can’t help that niggling feeling that Mickey was bonding with their pervy dog; and he couldn’t help but get annoyed that it was becoming a hindrance to getting his own way. 

_**3.**_  
Ian shuffles down the stairs, smiling at the image of Mickey curled up against the couch, little feet poking out of his blanket. Approaching the couch, Mickey shoots him an affectionate smile, expression lighting up at Ian’s presence. Ian circles the couch, acknowledging Mickey’s cop shows playing in the background, and waves a hand towards Buster who coiled into Mickey’s chest, snoring lightly. 

Mickey frowns, hand absently petting at Buster’s fur, “What?” 

“Can you—” he gestures towards the dog, signalling Mickey to move him. 

“Fuck off, man.” Mickey refuses Ian’s suggestion, his arm wrapping around the pooch possessively. “Sit over there, M’ comfy.” Ian’s eyes widen in utter disbelief.

Mickey hadn’t shown any real affection towards Buster. A few walks, little words of fondness, but nothing like this.

Ian puffs childishly, pouting as he slumped into the armchair at the other side of the room. At a distance he examines the situation. Mickey was content, eyes latched to the screen, little smiles and giggles appearing on his face everytime some idiot acted stupidly on-screen. Buster, who was now stealing Ian’s position on the couch, slept soundly under Mickey’s arm, his head tucked into Mickey’s chest. With squinted eyes, Ian felt hatred beginning to brew in his stomach. Yes, he had brought the damn thing into their lives, and yes, Buster was the cutest animal to breathe, but right now he was really starting to hate him. 

_**4.**_  
It’s been two weeks since Ian had noticed Mickey’s adoration for Buster. Two weeks of sheer hell. Mickey hadn’t paid him an ounce of attention, pinning it all onto that fur ball. Ian loved Buster, he did, but he couldn’t even talk to Mickey without the his most-beloved pooch creeping into the conversation. Mickey rarely expressed admiration for anything, unless they were in the enclosed confines of their springy mattress. Now, those little snippets of sweet words, soft touches, were all devoted to the dog. Ian was jealous --- he wouldn’t admit that to Mickey, because he’d only mock and spur laughter at the confession – and he was seething internally. 

This morning, unlike the rest of Mickey’s antics, was far stranger than the rest. Mickey had been dashing around frantically, grabbing towels from every rack, overflowing laundry baskets, and shelf he could find. Ian had been watching intensely, wondering whether Mickey had finally cracked. He assumed it was Mickey cleaning the place up, after moaning about how Buster was getting trapped in dirty clothes, but it did seem odd. Mickey hadn’t said a single word since he had stepped up the stairs desperate for a piss; and it only made Ian’s bewilderment worsen. 

Mickey dashed down the steps once more, uttering curses under his breath, barely noticing Ian perched at the table. He bumps into Ian’s chair, desperately grabbing at yet another towel left astray on the floor. “Hey!” Ian grumbles, dramatically raising his hands in the hair. “Fuck’s going on with you?” 

Mickey dismisses his words, simply hissing, “Mm?” 

Ian darts from his seat, grabbing Mickey’s arm. “You collecting all the fuckin’ towels that we own?” 

Shoving Ian’s grip away from him, Mickey continues his mission to look like a confirmed insane person. He grumbles, slinging a cloth over his arm, “Mind your own fuckin’ business.” 

“Mick,” Ian groans, stepping before Mickey, pinning him between the kitchen counter and his chest. “You gonna tell me what’s going on? You’ve hardly spoke two words to me in two fucking weeks. Always running around with that dog of yours---” 

A smirk creeps up onto Mickey’s face, “You getting jealous of a fuckin’ dog, Gallagher?” 

“No.” Ian answers defensively. “Just --- I miss you.” 

Mickey’s face brightens up, smile growing lovingly, with endearment. He palms Ian’s cheek, his voice turning soft, “As much as I enjoy the shit outta your whiny bullshit, there’s bigger things we gotta worry about.” 

Ian rolls his eyes, Mickey was still acting standoffish, “Like what?” 

Mickey drops his head, his body jittering suddenly. Avoiding Ian’s eyes, he mutters, “We have a problem.” 

Ian’s heart drops; his eyes trying to locate Mickey’s. Maybe there was a reason behind Mickey’s weird actions. A reason that didn’t involve their giddy pup. Something bad. He didn’t understand what towels had to do with that, though. 

Running a hand through his hair uneasily, he asks, “What kind of problem?” 

Mickey becomes even more agitated, his fingers fiddling with the loose threads at the edges of the towels, his eyes darting in all directions. Nicking his thumb at the curl of his lip, he sighs, “I mean, it’s a problem, but it isn’t a problem. But it is.” 

Ian had no idea what Mickey was rambling on about. He places his hand against his hip, “You’re killing me here, Mick.” 

It was entertaining witnessing Mickey filled with shyness mixed with a crumbling mess. Ian had never seen this side to Mickey before, par the times they wished not to talk about, and it was utterly endearing to the point where his heart was smashing against his chest. 

In record-breaking speed, Mickey blurts out, “So we might have to make Buster a unisex name—” 

“What?” Ian attempts to construct a sentence out of Mickey’s fast speech. 

Mickey places the towels onto the side, rubbing at his eyes in a combination of frustration and exhaustion. “Ugh,” He wets his lips in preparation for his next words, “Yeah. Buster has a fuckin’ pussy. Who would have thought?”

Ian’s face twists to uncertainty, dumbfounded by Mickey’s exclamation, “You’re kiddin’ right?” 

“Nope.” Mickey’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, releasing a breath. “We’ve got six puppies upstairs.” 

Ian’s unsure how Mickey could just confess to that without flinching, or freaking out, but with such ease. It was unbelievable. It was way too much information to battle with. Ian was sure Buster was a dude; well, that’s what his crackhead, previous owner had told him. And six puppies? That had to be a joke. Mickey was pulling his leg, for sure. But --- it did explain all the towels? 

That’s when he finds himself peeping through their bedroom door. Mickey had rushed up with his million towels, tending to Buster’s aid. The pooch was laid against a blanket, whimpering in pain as she prepared herself for the next push. All littered around her were in fact six puppies, imitating her cries, all tiny balls of shaggy fur. Ian watches in incredulity as Mickey coos the pooch, his hand petting her fur soothingly, his lips close to her ear as he muttered encouragements. Was he hallucinating? Were his meds playing up again? The whole image before him was totally unbelievable. 

Uttering to himself, Ian breathes, “What have you done with Mickey Milkovich?” 

Mickey puts up his middle finger, moving back to frenetically taking care of Buster. He points towards some towels – Ian’s sick of seeing the fuckers – and demands, “Chuck me those, man. Do somethin’ fuckin’ useful.” 

Ian grabs them, a little struck in shock, and exclaims, “How are you so casual about this shit?” 

Shrugging Mickey continues his display of heroics, “Can sell them off. Be gone in no time.” 

With failure to admit, Ian’s heart clenched at such a sight. It proved how much Mickey had developed, how he now wasn’t afraid to care, and Ian had lost sight of that when he was busy seething in jealously. He shifts forward, glancing down to the little puppies, a smile widening on his face with joy. Then he processes Mickey’s answer. “Wait, we’re not selling them, Mick. That’s just cruel.” 

“So, what?” Mickey turns his head, “You want to keep the little shits?” 

Ian immediately declines. “Fuck no.” 

He couldn’t have six more pets stealing his husband away. Buster was cute enough for him to forgive her. But they were not keeping them. He’d never see Mickey again if they did, he’d be too busy taking them for walks, combing their shaggy hair, bloody eating with them. 

Mickey steps up, his arms brushing against Ian’s as they stand together in awe of the birth. “What do you want to do then?” 

Ian’s not sure what a great solution would be. He guesses, though, “I’m sure there’s plenty of nice homes in the neighbourhood that’ll have em.” 

“Not very fuckin’ likely, Gallagher.” 

Ian shoves his shoulder into Mickey’s, shooting him a look. Despite the utter withdrawals that Ian had been experiencing the last two weeks, and his deprivation of Mickey’s divine attention, Ian can’t resist in loving his little dysfunctional family within that room. Mickey was a beaming ball of light, looking towards Buster as if she was his own child, and Ian never wanted to not see that. He could lose a couple of cuddles of the couch if it meant Mickey would smile like that more often. 

“Hey,” Mickey places a gentle hand on Ian’s chest, “Let’s leave her, yeah. Can watch a movie or something.” 

All Ian can do is grin in response. In his mind he’s all fucking finally and I’ve waited long enough, but he opts for pulling Mickey closer to him. Mickey follows in the embrace, his slightly clammy hands tilting Ian’s chin up. He glances from his lips to his eyes, biting his lip. Ian can’t help but to be seduced by Mickey’s charming exterior – and the fact that him falling into the role of pooch midwife was extremely hot – and he presses a gentle kiss onto Mickey’s lips. 


End file.
